Cub romp.

Oblivious to the human emotions his kind ignite, a young griz revels in the delights of a mountain meadow.

IT ALL BEGAN IN JANUARY. Six inches long. Fourteen ounces. Blind at birth. Six months later, the bundle of fur is a miniature version of North America's most feared animal, Ursus horribilis. A grizzly.

Although a symbol of swirling controversy, this particular member of the family hasn't a clue about the debates over reintroducing grizzlies into traditional habitats, or how much space a bear needs. That's human rhetoric. For the cub, life is now.

It's time to explore. The sun is warm. The western landscape is a mosaic of wildflowers. Unbridled energy and intense curiosity mark each movement. Ants scurry on a log, dodging a long tongue and all-powerful claws. Stalks of arrowleaf balsamroot sway in the breeze, piquing the bear's inquisitiveness. After dissecting a flower with the delicate touch of a surgeon, the little furball latches onto a stick. Like a puppy romping in a park, the cub jumps and dances with the stick in its mouth. Too much bite breaks the stick in two and ends the fun. Ah, well, that's okay--over there's a log to chew on.

People's opinions about grizzlies are usually clear . . . and strong. Some hate them. Others worship the ground on which they still roam free. Watching this gift of nature frolicking among the pines and flowers, it's hard to see the controversy.

The cub's hair clearly has that "grizzled" look that gives the species its name. This one has a distinctive white collar, a marking found on about 70 percent of all cubs. All too quickly the collar will disappear, along with that cuddly teddy-bear innocence, to be replaced by the fierce-willed survival instincts that make the griz the most dangerous animal on this continent--and the symbol of true wilderness.

For now, the cub is free to play under mom's vigilant eye--to dig in the dirt, pick the petals of a wildflower, climb a tree. And to charm the human interloper in its high-country home.